


But Rather, A Labyrinth

by homsantoft (tofsla)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Trespasser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 05:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5573188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/pseuds/homsantoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shutting down a slaving operation on the Wounded Coast, Bull remembers another coastline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Rather, A Labyrinth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iambic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iambic/gifts).



> The 2000 word prompt ficlet that took 7 months to write, for the prompt "sand between the toes," which James has presumably forgotten giving me. File title: "Beach Episode.doc"
> 
> Thanks to Lavinia for looking this over & reassuring me!

Fighting on sand is nothing he's missed, all unsteady footing and boots full of grit, and the day is a warm one besides. Oppressively humid Summer heat, the air too still even right on the coast. Kirkwall's not like the North, but it's enough. Bull leans heavily on his axe, breathes hard, in and out through the nose. Shit, he's getting—not old. Older. 

Sweat and blood on his face, and his leg already starting to twinge. The smell of death rising under the sun. Killing slavers is always a good day's work, but it makes a fucking mess.

In the caves, elf children huddling together anxiously, too quiet, and Bull is paralysed by memory. They'd killed the Tamassrans first and taken the Imekari hostage, holed themselves up and made demands—

It's Skinner who goes to them, crouches by them and mutters words Bull can't catch, voice fierce. He trusts her, with this. She was savage in battle today even for her. 

Dorian hangs back, close enough for Bull to touch. Outside, high tide, and the Waking Sea falls heavily on the rocks, drags noisily across coarse sand and pebbles. It echoes through the caves.

"Clear up in here," Bull says. "Get everyone out, strip it down."

"Bull," Dorian says. He's careful about it, at least. No pity, least of all in front of the boys. But it's a question, no doubt.

"Better go burn the bodies," Bull says. "Last thing this shithole needs is more corpses taking a walk."

"Well," Dorian says. "Excuse _me_." He's smiling, but there's worry there too, tight around his eyes.

Bull jerks his head towards the entrance. Follows Dorian out, feeling heavy in his own body.

 

 

A pyre is easy work for a mage, at least. 

"Come," Dorian says softly. Bull considers protesting, but that'd be a sure way to turn Dorian stubborn. 

They walk in silence along the shore, away from the cave and the drifting voices of the Chargers, the little core band he's brought along for this.

All those children. Gatt was a bit older than them, but undergrown, furious in his fear and uncertainty, clinging to Bull's leg and making him promise everyone was dead. There was a storm that day, warm rain that didn't do shit to clear the humidity from the air, thunder drowning out every second word. Bull wanted to tell him he was safe, but even if he was Hissrad then, he's never been that kind of liar.

Ah, crap, there's no point thinking about Gatt right now. Won't help anyone. He doesn't need to get more tangled up in his own head.

"Much as I hate to press you," Dorian says, "I find I have a certain interest in your wellbeing—"

Bull gives him a flat look.

Dorian sighs.

"Amatus," he says, "I know you're feeling uncomfortable."

That's a way of putting it. Bull shrugs. "Yeah. Not like you're having the time of your life out here. What's your point?"

The look of frustration that passes across Dorian's face is quite something. 

"You," he says, "are _infuriating._ "

"Aw, you really do care about me," Bull says, and the noise Dorian makes in response is entirely incoherent.

This place is really nothing like Seheron. Sand's not fine enough, and there's too much rock. No jungle at his back. Not nearly enough factions. Pretty easy going, all things considered. No big deal. There aren't even any demons so far, despite the reputation of the place, and that's a pretty decent bonus after the Inquisition.

None of that stops him feeling uneasy, like he's going to be ambushed any second. Fog warriors, maybe. Tal-Vashoth. Tal-Vashoth are almost the worst. Violence just below the surface, always, they're fucking savages, you can't trust them.

Dorian doesn't touch him, but he takes a step closer, close enough to have to tilt his head up to look Bull in the eye, arms at his sides, open and vulnerable. If Bull were to lose his grip—

Once, he spent a fair amount of time thinking about how to kill Dorian. If he was possessed, if he betrayed the inquisition, if he turned on Bull specifically. Years ago, before they became what they are. At this exact moment, he'd rather he hadn't. The knowledge sits uneasily in him.

"I'm not afraid of you," Dorian says.

Bull's being _read._

"I know," he says, closes his eye, breathes in, salt and rotting seaweed and Dorian.

"I'm going to touch you now," Dorian says.

Bull nods.

Dorian's hand is cool on his cheek. Not the smooth, soft hand of a pampered Magister's son, but worn and calloused, years on the road, years of fighting.

They were already roughened the first time they touched Bull. When they clawed at his back, desperate and ungentle, the night after Adamant. When Dorian took Bull's hand between his after the Storm Coast and the dreadnaught and Gatt's accusing looks, and asked for nothing at all—and Bull, through his grief, saw a first hint of some other possible future he didn't understand.

The Inquisition gave structure to his days, and Dorian gave structure to his desires.

But here he is. Tal-Vashoth among Tal-Vashoth. Kirkwall is still troubled by gangs of renegades, the legacy of the last Arishok. There aren't many left, but they loom large in the public imagination, in the stories shared in taverns after a drink too many.

If everyone in Orlais looked at Bull with disdain, there's a whole other edge to it up here, prejudice given weight and colour by memory.

"If we take another job here I'm going to have to insist you ask for better pay," Dorian says. His fingers curl very gently, thumb rubbing at the line of Bull's cheekbone, and there's his humour—enough to surprise a relieved laugh out of Bull in its familiarity. Nothing of Seheron to be found in this quiet amusement. 

Nothing to fear here. Inventory: a miserable stretch of beach and rock, scrubby plants growing in the crevices. Smoke from the fire. Some small creature skitters away up the rocks just out of sight. An old ship-wreck on the nearest islet, no boat on the horizon. Dorian, unharmed, looking up at him with affection. The Chargers with three injuries, none life-threatening. The children—well, they'll be doing a hell of a lot better soon. Yeah, fine, he feels vulnerable. It's a feeling. He can deal with that.

He centres himself.

"Better get back."

 

 

The Chargers haul the wood from the slave pens to the pyre, and give the chains and bars to the sea. The children, breathing cleaner air than they have in days, watch the process while Stitches checks on them, poultices and salves for bruises and chafed wrists, binding for a broken arm. It'll be good for them to see it, Bull thinks. Their prison dismantled. Maybe the memory'll help after a nightmare or two.

"Some are from the Alienage," Skinner says, clipped. "Most from Darktown. No families."

She would like to burn Hightown to the ground, Bull knows. He doesn't really blame her. They walked through Darktown looking for a guy who sold poisons the other day, and the squalid chaos of it was hard to take. The starving children who begged for food. The ones who didn't even bother. 

The city is rotten. He felt it. Whispers in the dark.

Still, it's all these poor sods have.

"Ask the Elder what to do with them," Bull says. She's an odd one, and young for the title, but the whole alienage looks to her these days. She cares. Tries to care. Skinner had an hour long argument with her when they were asking around for information, the most words he's ever heard her say in one go, and then declared her acceptable. Fenris had curled his lip when she was mentioned, but then, she's a mage; he made a worse face about Dorian, if it comes to that. Isabela likes her, but calls her sweet, all exasperated affection but still not entirely a compliment.

Skinner nods sharply. "Good. The shems can stay out of it."

Bull joins the work, and watches the children the whole time. Dorian, doing his part too, has his eyes on the Bull. He is—watched over, maybe. Not mistrusted, but worried about. It's more unnerving than just being watched. Being watched he can do; wariness answers well. How do you answer concern?

 

 

They set up camp outside the city walls, close to the coast. It's hard to find place for a whole company together in the chaotic half-demolished mess of the city proper, and also, secondarily, Dorian hates the place. He complains of headaches, grows restless. "I have no idea how any of them bore it, those wretched circle mages."

"Blood magic," Skinner says, and her smile is unpleasant, but there's a faint hint of humour somewhere under it. Dorian, who is occasionally almost relaxed these days, takes it in stride.

"Ah, of course. How quaint."

Dalish and Skinner volunteer to take the children to the alienage. At least, Skinner mutters urgently to Dalish over dinner and Dalish volunteers the two of them. Bull makes to include himself in the group, but Skinner gives him a flat refusal. It's Dorian she stares at.

Bull, following her gaze with a frown, is about to shut her down for insubordination; but he too is caught by Dorian's now rather startled expression.

Dorian is still keeping an eye on him.

Bull heaves himself to his feet.

"I said _no,_ " Skinner snaps. "Keep your horns out of the fucking Alienage, Chief. Heard of subtlety? Want people to think you're bringing in a bunch of baby Viddathari to spy on them?"

That's a good one.

Nobody laughs.

"Just say you want me to talk about my feelings next time," Bull says, sour. "Get it done. I'm taking a walk."

 

 

Down to the water's edge, sand and stone low-tide damp, pools of salt water left in hollows. His feet leave wet impressions behind him, their edges becoming diffuse.

He dumps his boots on a rock ledge and walks further out. The water around his ankles is cold despite the lingering heat of the day, a grounding shock. Sand between his toes, hard stone beneath his feet.

Footsteps on the path down to the water.

"What, exactly, do you think you're doing?" Dorian calls.

Bull turns.

Dorian is a silhouette against the lights of their encampment; must see Bull's face a damn sight better than Bull sees his. Bull has chosen his footing poorly— _would have_ chosen his footing poorly. 

Were this a conflict.

But the water is cold, the ebb and flow of it enough to keep it from drawing much heat from the land. The sand is only scraps drifting up against sheltered corners, settling in hollows.

"You've a ledge in front of you," Dorian says. "If this information is of interest. Perhaps you were actually hoping to take a swim in your armour. What do I know of your habits."

Catalogue: an uncertain shift to the last word means that Dorian is a little afraid. His clipped intonation, overly proper, means irritation.

"I suppose it's hardly classifiable as proper armour in any case," Dorian adds, and now he's softening, so Bull smiles.

"No," he offers.

Dorian walks down towards him, looks to the water, to his own booted feet. His face is easier to see now, a little crease of distaste between his eyebrows.

He doesn't join Bull in the water.

"I know where I am," Bull says, at length. Considers. "And who."

"And you certainly weren't afraid of forgetting," Dorian says. "Which is why I find you wading around out here."

Bull shrugs. "Water's cold."

A pause.

"Ah," Dorian says, as though this made perfect sense to him. 

Well, good.

"At the risk of sounding like you," Dorian says, "I can think of a few other ways to reassure oneself, and all of them are significantly more enjoyable than standing in the sea. Which is, as you yourself point out, notably cold."

"Yeah," Bull agrees. "You've got me there."

The water grows colder still, tugs around his ankles. Foam and small waves.

The tide has turned.

"Nothing filthy to offer?" Dorian asks. Holds out a hand.

Bull heaves himself up the slight incline to take it.

"Give me something to drink," he says, "and then we'll see."

"Truly, we all grow older," Dorian says. 

But oh, how pleased he sounds about it.


End file.
